


Halloween

by Axolotl7



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Gen, Halloween, Humour, May Feels, Melinda May is Not A Robot, Pheels, Philinda - Freeform, Team Bonding, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-23 06:34:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8317552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Axolotl7/pseuds/Axolotl7
Summary: "The party was a good idea, Phil. The team needed it." She needed it too. Maybe more than he knows. 

  There's just one notable person missing that leaves a hole in her heart. She sighs softly, hopes he misses the maudlin route her thoughts have taken. She really does miss Daisy.





	1. Everyone is dead, Dave

**Author's Note:**

> Chap 1 - Little bit angsty... sorry  
> Chap 2 - oh so much comfort and then party funtimes!  
> Chap 3 - the pheels... the pheeeeeeeels!
> 
> ;)

Chapter 1 - Everyone is dead, Dave

 

The message on her phone is expected around this time of year - the same order from the Director even if the man holding down the role changes. This year it's a little more insistent than previous times - bright red lettering, **bold** and CAPITALS like they need shouting at to obey a simple order from the Director. 

This year's also isn't personally addressed to her and Barton like it used to be many years ago. Now the order goes out to everyone on base. Who knows, maybe it even gets sent out to all Shield agents, irrespective of cover roles. It's almost nice to think that they've had such a profound impact upon shaping this organisation. 

She knows it is infinitely more likely that the new Director is simply enjoying exerting his control.

 

**BY ORDER OF THE DIRECTOR**

**THERE IS TO BE NO DRESSING UP, NO PRANKING AND NO PARTIES FOR ALL HALLOWS EVE**

**ANYONE CAUGHT DISOBEYING THIS DIRECT ORDER WILL BE SUBJECT  
TO FORMAL DISCIPLINARY PROCEEDINGS**

 

The order is issued every year...

...and ignored every year.

 

This year will be no different. Folks need time to relax, even in an organisation such as this. Maybe especially in an organisation like Shield. It's a high pressure environment. Physically. Mentally. They're picked as the best, then trained until they're better. So many drop outs. So many not quite making the standard required. So many that try and break. 

They'd be the best of the best if they were CIA, if they were NSA - Hells! - any of the other alphabet soup organisations. Shield needs better. Shield demands better. 

These agents deserve to let their hair down and have a little fun every now and then. So, irrespective of the director's order each and every year, agents would have a little fun - costumes, pranks, almost certainly spiked punch for the evening party... 

Okay, so maybe most years that had been down to her but Barton had taken it in stride when she'd dropped out on him, he'd rallied and introduced Natasha to the wonders of pranking with only a little hesitation. Hindsight being what it is, he probably should have hesitated a little longer really about introducing her to the world of pranks. A wicked sense of humour, the skills to carry most stunts out and very little personal restraint are a dangerous combination when it comes to pranking. Some of the things she'd pulled off...

Anyway, now it is tradition! For one night only it seems every Shield agent becomes a rebel, ignores the director's edict and dresses up anyway. It's not like the director's ever enforced it - a few shouted reprimands when it was just her and Barton sure - but now that it's grown... how would you reprimand an entire agency? 

 

The lights cut out! 

Emergency lighting gives everything an eerie glow. 

Her eyes are slow to adjust to the sudden change but her ears warn of sudden movement towards her in attack! Her body ducks and rolls on instinct allowing it to over shoot her position. A warbling inhuman sounding cry in what should have been an empty hallway. She catches white, glowing. Trails of insubstantial seeming fabric dragged from the movement and a breeze that isn't there. Her eyes take in limbs, a head; conclude a human seeming form through the darkness and her body's panic.

She rolls up to her feet and turns to get a better look at her attacker, whose insubstantial seeming form turns just as swiftly in the darkness. Tattered and bloodied clothing. Then darkness. Emergency lighting doesn't assist her greatly as it blinks in and out, conserving power, hiding her attacker every other second. She picks up a ghost white face. Blackened and dead eyes. Haunted.

She has a moment to decide - fight or flight.

She's never been good at running away.

She closes her eyes, knows better than to trust what she thinks she sees. Relies on other senses. Footsteps - quiet, hurried. She slips to the side, hopes her attacker will overshoot in the dark once more. An arm touches her shoulder as it passes. It's real. It can be hurt.

She grabs for a trailing arm, stops the thing's momentum with a sharp jerk, holds more tightly as she rotates it over and above her head, turning in to the move, bringing momentum to bear to force it to its knees. It counters, goes for her legs as it goes down and she loses her hold as she drops in a tangle of too real feeling limbs. Its disfigured face ends up too close to her own, a real scream forcing its way up and out over her throat in pure fear she cannot control. She finds her left arm suddenly loose and lashes out with all the power her terror lends to the movement. The heel of her hand crunches wetly as it connects with the thing's face.

Then she's up and her body is running irrespective of her mind's wishes.

"Wait!"

She's not waiting around.

"Wait, please. Agent May!"

Damn it. She drags her feet to a stop and turns to head back down the intermittently lit corridor. She won't leave another agent behind to face that thing alone. She runs back towards danger ignoring everything her body says to get the hell away and come back with back up, ICERs and some damned torches to light the way!

The lights flicker back on to main power between one step and the next. She's blinking rapidly at the suddenly brightly lit corridor. The form covered in grey rags in a heap on the floor is more easily recognisable as once human in the light. It's shaking - laughing? Crying? Coughing it transpires as it lets out another round of hacking wet coughs. She nears its position slowly, warily. Keeps her fists raised, stays in balance with each and every step, ready for the anticipated attack. There's no sign of the agent that called for her. Then it speaks, the same pained voice interspersed with spluttering coughs unlike anyone she knows, unlike anyone who should know her name.

"I'm sorry. It - it was meant to be fun." The form turns its face towards her, towards the light. Blood gushes from between the fingers of cupped hands. The eyes above frightened, shining bright and watery from the depths of blackness surrounding them. She knows those eyes. Knows that face, abnormally pale though it appears. There's more pained coughing before she deems it unlikely to be a threat. A rambling stream of apologies and excuses rapidly tumbling one after the other in a nervous babbling she only half listens to as she tries to place those eyes. 

Piper!

She almost stumbles in the hesitant step she takes closer to try to make certain. Piper is dead, the thought comes to her unbidden. It torments her mind as she takes in the deathly pale skin, the hollowed eyes, the bloodied ragged clothes, the fresh blood streaming from between pale fingers - no wait. Her mind catches up. The dead don't bleed. Not like this. Not fresh red blood. Certainly not for this long.

"Piper," she says finally, interrupting the spiel and her own morbid thoughts.

"I am so sorry, ma'am. I should never have accepted," the woman suddenly clams up and understanding dawns on Melinda. A dare, of course. It doesn't particularly calm her heart from its racing or let her muscles relax from the edge of panic. Piper sits in silent shame now, most likely trying not to say anything further and risk giving up her compatriots. A Halloween dare to leap out of the darkness and try to scare May. She's almost proud of Piper for making the attempt. It's exactly something she'd have done in years past. Make that had done. Several times in her recollection in fact. 

The attempt on Fury was probably the most memorable, simply because it wasn't. She'd taken point, Barton approaching from behind. They both agreed whilst recovering in medical that it was a success; that Fury had been spooked. That he'd leapt in to the air, coat flung wide out to either side of him, there'd been smoke grenades of some form or another, Fury had landed amidst the dust thickened air, then dropped, suddenly gone out from directly in front of them. A flash of light and sound so piercing they'd both been unable to hear the sounds of their own screams. Then nothing. Until they'd awoken to bright light and doctors' questions upon their reactions. 

Their attempts to take down Natasha had similarly ended with them in medical - though on this occasion it was to get the feathers they'd intended to dump upon her following the tar she'd somehow avoided professionally detached from the superglue she'd somehow managed to source and apply across the bare skin of each of their arms. To be fair to Natasha it did make for two excellent costumes the following day but the day after when they wanted rid of the uncomfortable 'wings' was a tortuously painful experience. Her giggling whilst they suffered didn't assist!

They didn't try Natasha again - just recruited her on side to help. If you can't beat 'em and all that.

They didn't try Hill more than the once either. Though that was for completely different reasons. Hill ruined everything fun. They'd spent days engaged in planning the assault on her office - where else would she expect to be safe from attack?! They'd scouted around every possible defence mechanism and reprogrammed all of the security scanners in place to allow their incursion to remain secret and the attack therefore unexpected. The lights had shut off as the power was hit, perfectly timed, wailing moans had sounded from various concealed speakers, smoke and an impossible indoor breeze whispered across papers on her desk. The three of them dropped down from the ceiling above in tandem, weapons raised and sighted directly on her position... still seated and typing on her pad. "If you three are done," she'd said completely unruffled by their incursion, "...then get this shit cleared up and get the fuck out of my office. Some of us have work to do." They'd collected everything in silence and left chastened. They'd ended up on report, naturally, and each ordered to take on teaching a term of basic training to the absolute idiots they got in as first year trainees. Separately. It wasn't fun. Oh no, they didn't prank Hill again. It really wasn't worth it.

 

Taking in the miserable form before her, hopefully Piper will consider her similarly not worth pranking from this moment forwards. Blood continues to run from between Piper's fingers. Melinda can feel the guilt gnawing at her stomach for causing such an injury unnecessarily to the younger woman. She didn't deserve to be injured from an attempt at a bit of fun.

"Piper?"

"I am so so sorry ma'am," Piper rushes to say, seemingly likely to start off again in her spiel of nervous apologies rather than let Melinda check if she's injured anywhere else. She really did twist that arm with the intent to dislocate.

"I told you never to call me that," Melinda replies simply, hoping that the reminder lightens the mood between them enough that the woman starts responding as the trained agent she's supposed to be moulding her into becoming.

"May! Yes, ma'am! Yes, May," Piper rushes again to babble, "Sorry ma'am- May! Sorry."

The woman's babbling almost makes her smile. Almost. "I'm sorry; I over reacted," Melinda says. If she hadn't been so on edge from recent happenings she'd have never struck out with such intent to harm. She'd have seen the ghoul for the human beneath the costume. She'd have reacted appropriately to a threat with proportionate response. She'd have taken the threat out of play, aimed to control not to injure.

"No, no. It is totally my fault. I accept full responsibility for my actions, Agent May. I should not have jumped out at you like that, I -" Piper says but as she finishes she lowers her hands from her face and the blood drips down from her nose afresh.

Melinda's body tenses on auto, tells her to flee right fucking now!

All she can see is the dead face of her agent, covered in blood. Bright red castigation. She did this. She hurt her team. Again. Those dead eyes looking up at her in question as she steps backwards away from the blood covered form. She swallows deeply. Tries to maintain control - she cannot break down in front of them. She will not do it. 

Oh god, she killed Piper! 

She closes her eyes to try to ignore the sight, try to refocus on the here and now, on reality and not some PTSD induced nightmare. 

The shuffling of more bodies in to the hallway has her reopening her eyes immediately - Strike One, of course. The whole team. This is a prank. Just a prank, she tries to make her adrenaline suffused body understand and believe what her mind repeats. She focuses on finding an appropriate response to the far too enquiring eyes of the rest of the team.

"You put her up to this," she says strictly, finally finding her voice. It's not a question, of course they did! "Then you get to drag her down to medical and sit there until Simmons has released her... and tested each and every one of you for any mental irregularities!" she snaps out that last feeling at least a little more like herself as they mumble and shuffle uncomfortably under the weight of her glare.

"Yes ma'am," sounds all around, sullen yet accepting of the punishment. There's nothing worse for a strike team member than sitting through medical. It's an antithesis of everything they are in trying to be the best of the best physically if not necessarily mentally. To be made to sit still whilst that physical health is put under test, repeatedly and lengthily as Simmons more than likely babbles at them incessantly... Yeah, it's a fitting punishment and it has the added benefit of keeping them out of her hair for a few hours whilst she regains a handle on herself.

They assist Piper from the floor and down the hallway ignoring her determination to do it herself, bickering about fault and unfair punishments only once they've turned the corner away from her. 

She breathes in deeply. Then out.

Now she just needs to shake the image of a dead Piper from her mind and she'll be fine. 

 

x

 

She heads to the gym to try to work off the lingering adrenaline that's making her skin itch. Throwing a few rhythmic punches into a bag until she's exhausted should help.

She appreciates her mistake almost as soon as she steps in to the gym itself. It's hot and sweaty despite the improved air conditioning pumped through and around the different gyms on base to take in to account the increasing numbers of personnel now working out on a regular schedule. This gym is nowhere close to capacity with only three users but it's not the numbers that stall her feet a few paces inside.

It's their faces.

She forces her feet to step forwards, watches them warily as she moves through their stares to the locker room to change. Even once safely alone with only the lockers to see her she can't shake the feeling of everyone's eyes upon her. She's being watched. She shakes her head and takes a deep breath. She's being paranoid. They're simply partially in costume. She assures herself that the remnants of pale paint will be slightly sweat streaked from a living body's exertion if she only cares to look closely enough.

It's just too reminiscent of recent events.

Of her team, dead, staring at her across the gym. Of Coulson with his ghostly face ordering them to take her down. Of how she hurt them in retaliation. 

She hurt her team.

She won't do that again. She tries to convince herself that she knows better now. She knows rationally that they aren't all dead. There are no ghosts here. It's simply Halloween. It's people having fun. God, she hates Halloween right now.

She forces herself to pull it together and changes swiftly into more manoeuvrable clothes. She doesn't let herself look around at the others as she re-enters the gym proper or as she takes up position before a weight bag. If she can ignore their presence then she can just get on with life. It's only one day a year. She can do this.

She tests her distance. Takes up a right stance and starts a steady warm up rhythm. She throws punch after punch, wants to fall in to the usual rhythm, the soothing pattern of strikes falling one after another, rapid, instinctive. Draining. But she can't help the feeling of everyone's eyes upon her. A tingling between her shoulder blades means she can't focus on the bag. Her body holds her on high alert. Merely awaiting the attack.

Instinct tells her to run, to get away.

Pure stubbornness tells her not to give in, that this is simply her mind playing tricks upon her, that she is stronger than this, that she will not allow her body to panic and overrule her this time.

But rational thought intrudes, echoes her instincts, telling her that she needs to get out of here; that this cannot go down like the last time. She will not be a danger to anyone else here. They don’t deserve to be attacked simply because she can’t get her head screwed on right.

"Agent May, are you okay?" A hand touches her arm and she reacts - breaks the lightest of grips, spins away and backs up in to a space. Quickly takes in the position of every possible attacker, backing up some more into a space where she can more readily defend, can keep all of them in her range of vision, prepares for the inevitable attack. 

"Agent May?" the same voice, questioning her. Possibly an attempt at distraction as he edges slowly closer to her position, hand raised as though to reach out and touch her. She can't let him touch her.

"Is she going crazy again?" the woman on the left, Miles or something similar. Build like a brick house with an attitude twice as hard. She'd been offered up for Strike One. Melinda had declined - too hard to bend in to shape, more suited to Strike Three where she'd placed her with similarly minded marines. She's glad only that those dead eyes aren't another one of her team.

"Agent May, can you hear me? Are you hallucinating?" the voice again sounds through the haze of too much information flying around her brain. The clank of a machine over to her right sounds the dropping of weights. The light creak as the ghoul stands from its seat, steps over the bench to focus on her. Three of them. She can take three of them.

"Someone call Coulson!" 

"Agent May, I'm going to ask you to come to medical with me... let Special Advisor Simmons check you out," the voice tempts her, soothing and low. Confident and in control as she only wishes her own thoughts were. The tone pleads with her to comply on a subconscious level, to trust the owner, tries to convince her that the words make sense. 

She glares at the speaker, stopping his approach mid-stride. She's been through resistance training of the highest level; a soothing voice alone is nowhere near enough to overcome her mind.

"She's so gonna kick our asses!" says the third one. She thinks less of him for it. It's poor form to say it out loud even if it's true. It'll bring down the rest of his team, they'll be less confident, lack belief in their own chances of success. 

"Shut it, Bane!" 

"Hey she took down all of Strike One, you really think we're gonna have a chance once she goes whammy on our ass?"

"I said: shut it!"

"We'll be the ones going to medical-"

"I'll put you there myself if you don't shut your fucking mouth!"

Melinda hears all of it. The bantering helps; her ears tell her that they're real, alive. That the undead wouldn't stand around arguing like this. She shakes her head trying to dislodge the images that haunt her. Tries to convince her fraught mind that this is not what she fears. That they're not the undead they appear, that they're not ghosts haunting even her waking moments. It's just Halloween. 

It is. Just. Halloween.

She takes a deep breath in and then lets it back out.

She deliberately forces her arms down to her sides and takes a step forward towards the main speaker, Agent Ramirez. She'll have to mention him to Coulson. Good head on his shoulders, trying to keep things calm, soothing voice talking her down just the way Phil would try to solve the problem. Phil should take a special interest in this one; he could do with a protégé to run him ragged. That thought brings a small smile to her lips and helps her body relax a little from its tense state. She meets the eyes of those that cautiously surround her in turn, lets them work out for themselves that she is back in control, howsoever tentative that control might be.

"Agent Ramirez, I apologise," she tells him shortly. She's apologised to more people today than she probably has in the months that preceded it. "You startled me." It's an understatement and then some, but it's probably enough of an explanation for them to let it go. 

She turns to another agent, dismissing Ramirez quickly to prevent him the opportunity to respond, "Agent Volenti, your negativity has no place in combat. Report to me at 0530 tomorrow. Bring your pads." She'll deal with him tomorrow. He'll be lucky to escape without her bunking him back down to level one- err... blue? Fucking damn new spectrum of rainbow authority!

She strides past them all to the exit and leaves the room standing in silence. She needs to get her head on straight. She can't keep freaking out and almost attacking people like this. She heads for her bunk to shower and change. Maybe then she'll feel a little more like herself.

A staccato of hurried footsteps behind her has her shoulders rounding slightly in anticipation of an attack from behind. She is far too on edge for this shit.

She slants her eyes sideways to catch the reflection in the window rather than over react. Again. Agent Ramirez chasing her down the corridor. Of course, Coulson would never have let her go at that either. "Agent May?"

She stops, gives him the benefit of her turning to face him and a raised eyebrow inviting him to continue. 

"I- Erm. I - well - I know it's not my place but Iwouldreallylikeitifyouwenttomedical." 

She blinks twice in to the silence as he stands and fidgets nervously while she decodes the rushed babble flung at her. Hell! She's used to FitzSimmons, she can do fast. He seems to notice what he's doing and takes up a more formal stance at ease awaiting her response with seeming dread. But not taking it back or backing down. Just like a young Coulson. She softens despite her best intentions. "I'll check by medical."

All of the tension seems to flow out of him at once at her simple promise.

"Thank you ma'am!" he says, then he turns and practically flees down the corridor. She smirks where he can't see and shakes her head, yep - just like Coulson!

She’ll go to medical AFTER she gets a shower and a change of clothes. She will. She kind of has to now she’s promised that she will. Damn it.

 

 

x

 

She goes to medical because she said that she would, that's all. By the time she's there she's almost convinced herself that there's nothing actually wrong with her. She's managed to walk past agents in costume through the corridors without panicking, seeing doubled faces haunting her, and most certainly without losing control. So her intention as she enters is simple - get in, check in with Simmons to make sure Piper's alright, then head back to her bunk and enjoy a quiet evening away from the swirling masses of people enjoying Halloween.

Her intentions of a simple stop fly out of the window the moment that she enters the room. Fitz is slumped over a desk, the back of his white lab coat soaked with blood, a gaping hole confirming an upper chest shot. She dashes in without caution, without sense! Quickly scans the area for threats as she races across the room without cover - stupid! - and presses a hand to his cold neck seeking a pulse. Please God, let there be a pulse!

A girlish shriek rends the air before she can feel anything more than clammy skin as Fitz jumps up and away knocking things flying! He's panicked, babbling a mile a minute, probably from shock and blood loss. She ignores his words and concentrates on the bullet holes in his chest. She grabs for gauze, for towels, for anything to put pressure on it despite knowing it's hopeless. They'll have hit his heart!

She sobs as she tries vainly to stop the blood with her hands and will alone but blood still lazily dribbles from the wounds over and around her fingers.

He touches her shoulder and she flinches, finds his eyes - the bullet holes between them. Three central shots. Bridge of the nose, forehead less than an inch above, and the third slightly left of the cluster. All kill shots. _Her_ kill shots.

She did this. She thought it was an icer. 

She'd shot. Repeatedly. 

Three to be sure. Never risk it with just one, an instructor had told her that seemingly a million years ago. Her cluster. Three rounds - direct, upper, then down and left. All within the same inch circle. Her marks. Her kill. 

Oh god! 

Her feet dance backwards beneath her, bloodied hands outstretched to ward him off. She collides with a bench, shifts around it, stumbling, frantic. She did this. She killed Fitz. She needs to get out of here! 

His lips are moving but all she can hear is the blood rushing through her ears. Her heart beat pounding. Too fast. Too panicked. 

He takes a step towards her, arm outstretched as if to touch her. His fingers too pale by half, the white a deliberate contrast to the bright red staining his finger tips. Staining her own outstretched hands. His blood on her hands. 

His eyes dead and leeching in to her soul. The blackened holes accusing her with their mere presence upon his forehead. Oh god, Fitz! She's killed Fitz! 

She can't face it. 

She turns and runs. 

Her mind's betraying her. They're all dead. 

As she runs it consumes her every thought on repeat. They're all ghosts. She killed them. 

She prays that it's simply her mind betraying her again; that this is just her going crazy, that she hasn't actually killed them all yet. Maybe if she gets far enough away she can't hurt them. Maybe... if they're not already dead and haunting her.

She needs to find somewhere safe to work this all out, she knows that much at least. Whether they're dead or she's going crazy, she needs space to work this out.

She slows hearing another group of people up ahead, casually talking. She keeps her head down as she walks quickly past them, hoping not to draw notice, hoping not to incite attack. The base might be compromised. She passes another group, their undead eyes turning to watch her as she passes harried. She's drawing attention. She forces herself to slow her stride as much as her body wants to break in to a sprint away... anywhere... just away.

She can't just keep walking and hoping her feet take her somewhere. She needs a plan. She needs - Coulson. Her rock. He'll help her. He found her the last time. He knew it wasn't real. He'll tell her straight and if she is losing it... well then he'll do whatever needs to be done. 

 

x

 

She slips in to his bunk without questioning whether he'll mind the uninvited intrusion. He works from here now that the Director's taken over his office. He says it works for him. He's a damn good liar but she knows better than to believe so blatant an untruth from his lips. He's typing on a pad as she enters, his back turned to the doorway as he walks and thinks. A quick glance over his shoulder at her and a smile of welcome is all she needs to turn back and key the code to lock the door behind her.

Coulson is normal, thank all the gods! 

She needs normal. His suit jacket from the back neatly ironed perfection. No blood gushing, no bullet holes. No deathly white face with blackened eyes. She'd feared with him no longer being director he'd have jumped right back in to the swing of things and gone all out with a costume in a minor rebellion against the current director. She should have known better than to think he'd try to push the man's buttons so obviously. That's more her style. Coulson prefers to keep things under the radar when he's pushing.

She still keeps a tentative distance from him and an easy escape route back to the door as she waits for him to turn all the way around to face her before letting down her guard entirely. He types a couple more taps then drops the pad lightly on to his bed and walks back to the main living space, giving her his full attention. No dead eyes. No unnecessary kill wounds. Just Phil. She breathes deeply in relief. Just stands and breathes. 

"May? You okay?" he asks immediately concerned.

She just breathes for a few moments with her eyes closed. He's safe. She's going to be okay. She'll just stay here until it's all over and everything will be fine.

"You didn't want to dress up?" she says eventually, trying to force lightness she doesn't feel in to her tone.

"Oh," he says, seemingly surprised at her attempt at teasing him. His hand pulls the flap of his jacket to one side and she panics.

Oh gods! 

No! 

No, not Phil too! 

Her eyes sting with the threat of tears. Her blood rushes through her ears, drowning out all sound. The lights are too bright. Her heart pounds painfully reminding her of its presence. Her soul... just hurts.

The scar no longer a scar but an angry red wound with flesh gaping. The hilt of a chitauri blade shifted out from wherever it had been, folded and hidden from sight, to suddenly standing proudly. The instrument of his defeat. His killer.

She should have been there. She should have had his back. She wasn't, she didn't, and he died! 

She stumbles backwards on unsteady legs.

Her hand hits the coded panel repeatedly. A negative sound resonating in her ears, increasing her panic, her unreasonable fear. She taps harder but daren't take her eyes off that deadly wound as what used to be her friend advances steadily towards her. Another negative and she gasps in a sob. She can't do this again!

A positive bleep, a hiss as the door gives way to her panic and she's out of there, fleeing down the corridor away and uncaring of the sight she makes or the attention she draws as she cries out her pain and fear and flees as fast and as far as her feet will carry her.

She's killed them all. 

 

x

 

Her mind tortures her with images of everyone she knows and loves dead. Inhuman corpses wandering around the base, their dead eyes following her every move, accusing her, blaming her for their deaths. She should have been there. She should have protected them. This is all her fault.

Her legs carry her to the hanger. She's no plane left, no bus to hide herself away inside and lock out the rest of this tormented world. There is nowhere safe. She finds herself at the entrance to the Zephyr, raises her palm to the scanner, piloting on auto as her rational mind seems to have abandoned her. If she were feeling anything, she'd feel surprise when the ramp hisses down accepting her print as sufficient to enable access to the prized jet. Instead she just feels numb as she walks on inside. 

She thought she wouldn't have the clearance to get anywhere. She daren't actually leave the base in case it is yet again a problem with her. She knows rationally that it is more than possible. She headed for the quinjet simply because the idea of flight has always soothed her. She's always been in control in the skies. 

She leaves the lighting off throughout the plane, navigates the various rooms by touch, invariably heading towards the cockpit. She has to remind herself when she arrives that Coulson built this plane without one. Oh it has a helm and the ability to pilot it there. He just refused to build another plane where she would be isolated away from them all as she flew it. But despite his best efforts, she doesn't fly this plane.

She finds a corner near the view screen and lets herself slide down until she's curled into the darkest hole she can find, solidity behind her, beside her. The walls at least are real. Nothing will come at her from behind unseen.

She holds tightly to the thought that if she can just stay here until tomorrow everything will  
be different. That this is only Halloween. Tomorrow everyone will be normal. Tomorrow everyone will be alive. Tomorrow the ghosts of those she loves won't be haunting her. Tomorrow she won't have killed them all. 

Tomorrow. 

She still can't shake off the lingering doubt that this is real. That she has killed them all. That nothing will change. Not tomorrow. Nor the days that follow. Or the nights filled with nightmares thereafter. 

What if she has killed them all?

 

x


	2. Of heroes and of mortal men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I can be your hero baaaaaaaby" 
> 
> No, I didn't make poor Phil sing it. He's her hero anyway though, you know?

Chapter 2 - Of heroes and of mortal men

 

She tenses, suddenly awake at the slightest sound intruding into her terror filled imaginings. She's little idea how long she's sat hugging her own legs tightly to her body in a mockery of comfort. She shivers from the cold of sitting so long on the metal plating and hears the intruder freeze in place.

The lights flash on, blinding her immediately while she struggles to blink her sight free of the pervading black smudges that obscure her vision in this new light. She doesn't bother moving. She's far too exhausted for another fight so soon. If the ghosts want to kill her now, let them. She's had enough.

Her eyes find simple black trousers atop shined shoes and watch uncaring as they walk across the metal deck plate towards her small form. Does she look as frail as she feels?

She looks up as he hesitates in front of her, squinting against the too bright lights of the command deck. Of course it's him, who else would find her even when she wanted to be hidden? Who else would care?

Her eyes hasten to his chest and he obeys her intent stare, unbuttoning and parting the fresh shirt that now covers him to show her the scar. Unblemished. Healed. Proof that he is alive; that he did survive. It was only makeup, she appreciates. She knew that before. She's sure she knew that. He's just cleared off the makeup on his chest. No Chitauri blade decorates it, signs his death warrant. She forces her eyes from him back to the floor an inch ahead of her feet. She feels like an idiot. 

Of course, it was just Halloween. 

He moves beside her, slides down the wall next to her position, making one hell of a racket as he sits and slumps. He tries to respect her need for silence. She can feel that he's trying for her as much as she knows that he isn't going to last very long without speaking. He never does. 

He shifts his feet about, shuffling until she assumes he's sitting more comfortably.

Lapses in to stillness and silence again. 

She can see his head move in the periphery of her vision, scanning over and around the room as though looking for something to do, something to comment upon. 

He sighs audibly and she's almost tempted to smile at him being so damned Phil Coulson it hurts! This is the friend she loves.

He tilts his feet upon the ground, rocking them back to front to back to- her hand reaches out to touch his knee, stopping him mid rock and that hand is seemingly content to stay there even once he's stopped. She can feel the heat of his body under her hand, the light pulse beneath her palm confirming with its every pushing beat 'he's alive', 'he's alive', 'alive'. 

He starts to talk, hesitates, closes his mouth instead.

Once.

Twice.

Then sighs audibly.

"Nice view," he says and makes her snort a short laugh as he no doubt intends. 

"You know Simmons has the whole base on alert trying to find you," he says after a little longer in silence. She simply points at the red glow flickering in the corner of a monitor. 

"Of course you know," he agrees. "I think she quite likes her new found power to order everyone about," he tries again to draw her in to conversation. She's not even a little bit tempted. She knows Simmons isn't enjoying this and even if she is, Melinda can't begrudge her even a little enjoyment when death hangs so close in the air around them all. "You know there's a party going on and no one's spiked the punch in your absence." She doesn't respond out loud to his prompting, she simply doesn't have the energy to bandy words with him just now.

She doesn't retreat away when he shuffles closer though. She needs the comfort of his warm body being pressed side to shoulder with her own. Eventually he speaks again, quietly, confidently, "you know... its okay not to be okay sometimes, Melinda."

She wants to argue the point with him – in their line of work it is anything but okay to not be okay. She should have told someone earlier about what she was seeing. She thought she was doing right at the time, trying to fix the problem. Maybe if she’d gone to someone she wouldn’t have hit him, maybe she wouldn’t have hurt Piper and the rest of her team. She allowed herself to become a danger to everyone around her. The guilt sits heavily in her stomach. It could have all been so much worse.

“It’s okay not to be okay just now. I’m here,” he says and the words hit home harder than she's prepared for. He’s here. He’s always here for her. Even when she’s gone crazy and attacked him. Even when she’s just fled like a lunatic through the base, her behaviour clearly signalling that she’s compromised again. Even when he knows that coming in here, now, without any sign of backup could very well be a risk to his continued health... 

Damn it. 

She shudders on an inhalation to hold back the sobs that want to overtake her body once more. She won't allow that further loss of control. She won't permit it. He catches the shiver that trembles down her spine and wraps his arm around her shoulders. She accedes to his gentle pull and lays her head upon his chest. She can hear the soft thud of his heart beating beneath her ear from here. Reassuring regularity. Alive. Alive. Alive.

 

It's okay not to be okay just now. Maybe just for now. 

Just for a minute.

 

x

 

He can't keep silent forever; she knows that just as much as she knows they can't both sit here hiding from the world forever. "I'm okay," she whispers to him because it's what he needs to hear to let her go and return to his party, to the team that needs him.

"You're not okay, Mel," he says understanding probably more than she ever wants him to understand about her. "It'll take time. You've been through a traumatic experience." 

She scoffs in rejection at that. It's hardly trauma; she's been hurt worse in training. Admittedly training has never sent her running to hide away from everyone.

"You can't just pop back to life and expect everything to be exactly as it was before," he continues speaking over the thoughts in her mind. 

"I'm fine," she snaps at his coddling ways but she doesn't move away from his comforting arms. Maybe that says something. She's not entirely sure she likes whatever it says.

He uses her own trick, simply snorting at her words before he continues in a much kinder tone, "aren't all of us always fine?" She supposes that they are. It's the standard answer. The one that is intended to avoid getting you carted off to medical for tests, to psych for evaluations, off on suspension pending some sort of fantastical approval that says your fixed just enough to be allowed back on base, back on mission, that you're broken just enough to still be useful. She feels more broken than useful right now. 

 

He shouldn't have risked chasing her down. "I hope you at least brought an ICER." He should know better than to just come after her when she is most likely compromised. She keeps her head down, hidden against his chest and refuses to meet his eyes; she doesn't want to see the pity or worse... the fear that might linger there.

He scoffs. "I've no intention of shooting you, Melinda," he says forcefully, "I know better than to risk the revenge you'd dish out." He tries to turn it in to a joke but she's far more concerned at the fact he's chased her up here all alone without even bringing an ICER to take her down if he needs to.

Frankly, he's an idiot. Anyone can see that she's not okay. Anyone who has witnessed her ridiculous retreat through the base, running scared from Halloween masks, should know she's not okay! She's a danger to everyone around her. He should have come here prepared to take her down. Irrespective of friendship, he should be here right now willing to do what is necessary for the safety of everyone else on this base!

"I want you to promise me," she starts simply but the words are hard to say even if she manages to force them out, "promise me that if I become a danger to anyone-"

"You won't." His simple faith isn't enough. Not this time.

"If I do," she insists, "then I want you to ICER me."

"Melinda-" he protests the idea. She's half surprised. She expected him to take a more pragmatic view of things, to make a more reasoned decision after weighing up all the risks.

"I don't want to hurt anyone, Phil," she says, something's clogging her throat, making it difficult to speak.

"You won't-"

"I-"

"Hey," he says and jostles her shoulder with his own until she actually looks up at him, "you won't hurt anyone, Melinda. The timing of everything and Halloween coming up so soon just hasn't worked out this time around. If it hadn't been ghosts or people weren't dressing up as all manner of undead monsters then you'd be out there right now, spiking the punch bowl and causing general mayhem." If only. Doesn't matter the reasons though. She's a risk. If he won't promise to take her down if she loses it then she needs to put herself far enough away from everybody that she can't hurt them. At least until this day is over.

"Lock me up?" she asks simply - it's the easiest answer she can find to ensure everyone else remains safe. "Just for tonight," she presses when he shakes his head in denial. "Please, Phil."

"Melinda, I am not shooting you and I am not locking you up," he ignores her protests and steam rollers right on ahead talking over her, "however... I am not an absolute idiot." Pfft! Could have fooled her. "The zephyr is on complete lock down." That does surprise her, she never even heard any - "Silent alarm. Keyed entirely to my sole access code so no one else is getting in here, or out of here, without me letting them." Of course, she knew he'd have a plan up his sleeve somewhere. The relief she feels is overwhelming. He's too long in their world to not have some move in place to deal with whatever state he found her in up here. "So you can either spend the rest of this evening, and probably the entire night, with me talking at you until you ICER _me_ for some blessed silence... or you can join me at a superhero only costume party with all of our _friends_."

Wait-what now?

"I added a few words to the director's order this afternoon." He wriggles about, ostensibly trying to fit his hand in to his back pocket. Most likely to find his phone despite the fact that she regularly tells him not to put it in his back pocket because he'll break it. "You know..." he speaks as he wriggles probably just to ensure there's no pause in to which she could speak to refuse. "The new director is furious" - she knows he's searching for the obvious joke there - "that everyone has ignored his order about Halloween. He's been stomping around writing names down left, right and centre." Almost kneeling up now he finally manages to fish it out of his back pocket.

"Doesn't he know it's ignored every year?" she asks simply for something to say rather than any real interest in the answer. 

"I may have neglected to tell him that when I gave him the standard order and told him the director issues it every year around this time," he sounds just a little too gleeful at his minor revenge.

"Little bit mean." 

"Little bit maybe," he replies sounding entirely too pleased with himself. 

He hands her his phone, the director's order clearly printed in capitals, in bold, underlined and red. She nods, she's seen it before. "He really did want people to take notice." 

"Read the bottom paragraph," he instructs simply.

Much smaller type, no bold, no capitals, no ostentation of any kind. Just a simple sentence saying:  
"You should all be heroes."

"Superheroes to be more precise," he adds as her eyes read and re-read the line over and again.

She swallows past the lump in her threat. Twice. Everyone dressed up as superheroes? No undead ghouls haunting her waking dreams? No ghosts from nightmares she cannot convince herself aren't real? No... no death? No fear? No risk that she's suddenly going to lose it on a flash back and hurt someone? He's actually arranged that for her.

He waits, seemingly giving her a moment to take it in and work out for herself that with no strange undead haunting the place she can probably... cope. That she'll not be a danger to anyone. Well, no more than usual anyway.

She licks her lips twice before she can find any words to say to him. She knows her eyes are glistening with tears unshed, grateful doesn't even cover how she feels right now. "Superheroes aren't really Halloween," she somehow finds the words despite her mind remaining at a loss for anything appropriate to say to communicate just how grateful she is to him for finding a way around the problem.

"You want to tell everyone they've got to be dead instead of heroes?" He challenges her with a smile. No, she really doesn't want to do that. That is the opposite of what she wants. She's spent enough time imagining them dead. They're not dead. They're heroes. It's much more fitting anyway. "Let me put this another way then..." he continues, "you want to tell me I don't get to dress up as Captain America?"

Gods damn him for making her laugh despite everything!

She can't fix the problem through fists or flight... but with a few well placed words he's seemingly sorted everything. He really is a little bit amazing sometimes.

"No, no, I really don't want to tell you that... Captain."

 

x

 

"I don't have a costume." It seems like a particularly weak excuse even to her own mind but they’re quickly approaching the common room and she's fast running out of reasons not to escape to her bunk and hide.

"You go as yourself," he says taking up a hold on her upper arm and continuing them both down the corridor under his own momentum.

Her feet continue to work on auto pilot but her mind's stunned for a few seconds before she can find her voice to respond croakily, "I'm nobody's hero."

"You're mine," he says immediately. Earnestly. He’s a fool if he even half believes what he’s saying. She simply rolls her eyes at him, her humour slightly improved despite her disbelief. "I think you'd be surprised how many on this base alone consider you a hero," he continues.

She knows better than to argue with him about it – he’ll only keep on pushing until she ends up mad at him – so she simply ignores him and goes for a distraction instead. "Gimme," she says gesturing at his suit jacket. His eyebrows furrow in puzzlement so she simply helps herself, pulling his jacket open and away, snatching his handkerchief and his best pen from his pocket without even a by your leave.

She ignores his indignant expression, scrawls for a few moments, grabs his jacket to pop the pen back inside and quickly positions the napkin from her neckline to hang across her chest. 

"Black widow, good choice." He's never one to be lost for words for very long.

"Don't you dare tell Natasha!" she growls and he crosses his heart quickly grinning in promise. She can't help but grin back at him. This might actually be fun. It's starting to feel like old times. Before the weight of the world hung upon their decisions. Before they realised the world is not a nice place. Before... 

"But..." he starts leadingly, dragging her eyes up to him in question, "you just need..." his hands whip the hanky out of her top, nimbly grabbing for the zipper with similar impropriety as her grabbing for his pen - only she wasn't pretty much manhandling his breasts! - drawing it down low until she is showing waaaay too much cleavage and then gently pushes the napkin back in place, stroking over the top of her clothes to ensure its lying flat and straight.

Repeatedly. 

Long after it's correctly positioned. Her pulse is doing double time by the point she grabs for his hands to stop him continuing his teasing further. 

He simply grins at her inability to find her tongue. "You want to die your hair red?" he says as though nothing's happened. She wants to wipe that smirk off his face. 

...with her lips. She shakes her head to clear it. 

"No? Well maybe we could find a wig? I think we hired all of the costume stores in the city, I'm sure we've a red wig somewhere." 

She's not wearing a wig, and she's certainly not spending hours stripping her hair to try to dye it lighter. "I'm undercover," she deadpans, daring him to challenge her on it.

"Of course you are," he agrees immediately, "which is exactly why you've got your call sign pinned to your ... err... front."

 

x

 

Inside the party is in full swing. Loud. Bright. Happy. She can see the remains of previous decorations stuffed under the stairway and can't help but smile at the lengths they've gone to to try to change things for her. The costumes are _inventive_ to say the least... and no one looks back at her from haunted dead eyes that tear in to her very soul.

"Agent May!" Simmons is the first one to spot her and dash across the room in welcome. 

Chestnut red wing beneath a cream hat, seventies style button up skirt suit and bright red lipstick take her a moment to place the costume. "Agent... Carter, I believe?"

Of course with that one question she invites an excited explanation at length from the younger woman, rambling about how Agent Carter really is all of Shield's hero! She founded it, after all! And for a woman in that time to be able to do something so momentous for the world... How she had thought it might be an insult what with her being an actual person but Fitz convinced her that it was actually a tribute to dress up as someone that they admired. And of course then she'd thought about who she actually admires and, "of course, I thought immediately of dressing as you, but that would be weird wouldn't it?" She looks from the side of her eyes to find Coulson's only to find him grinning smugly in that oh I so told you so way and makes a note to elbow him later for it. Simmons continues rambling on oblivious, "I mean me dressing up as you and you being here and then I thought urgh all the leather and I just don't look good in leather! I mean I look like some kind of dominatrix wanna be and I really didn't want to dye my hair black because it takes months to get black dye out of hair like mine you know?"

"Simmons!" Fitz thank god for the intermission! "Don't hog agent - er - I mean the Black Widow. Good choice of breasts-dress!- Agent May." His eyes dart very rapidly up to her own guiltily. "I'll just er - go... and touch you a drink. Fetch! I'll go and fetch you a drink!" with that he turns about. She hears the "Oh god," he mumbles mournfully as he leaves.

"Oh don't worry Fitz, Tony Stark is a notorious philanderer," Simmons says as she follows him, no doubt torturing him further.

Melinda glares at Phil for laughing and tugs the zipper up an inch or so higher in response. 

"Hey!" he complains immediately, "They're your - her! - greatest assets! Weapons! I meant weapons."

"Sure you did, Philip," she replies but that zipper is not moving back down for all the puppy dog looks he tries on her. "When are you getting your spandex on?" she fires back at him, oh she can't wait to see this! 

"Oh yeah, be back in a minute," he says and shoots out of the door behind her far too excited and seemingly not at all embarrassed at the thought of wearing a spandex Captain America suit. Strange man. 

She follows Fitz and Simmons' trail to the drinks table. Finds Simmons scrubbing at Fitz' forehead as she wriggles impatiently and complains at her rough handling.

"For god’s sake, Leopold, sit still!" 

"Well I would sit still if you stopped trying to scrub my scalp off!"

"I can still see a faint imprint. What the hell did you use!?!"

Simmons is right - there is still a very faint shadow of dark holes on his forehead. Barely visible. Certainly nothing like the deadly wounds that had sent her spiralling down a -

"Let me put some foundation over it to cover it."

"For the last time Simmons no! I am not wearing make up!"

"You were quite willing to wear makeup earlier to get your deathly pale look. Face paint is just the same as make up. I don't see why you're being so unreasonable about this!"

"Boys don't wear makeup Simmons!"

"Try thinking of it as war paint-" May interrupts before they actually begin arguing about it. She doesn't want them arguing over something she's caused.

"Oh Agent May! You startled me!" Simmons says spinning around with a hand to her chest and a smile on her face. A correct response to startlement, she reminds her rational mind to take note for the future.

"A lot of men in combat wear war paint, or you could look upon it as a disguise," she continues as she reaches up to touch the faint shadows on his rubbed red forehead and both fall silent and still. Melinda doesn't touch people. It's awkward. She quickly retreats away embarrassed, mumbles that it's barely noticeable anyway and busies herself getting a cup for the punch.

Fitz is suddenly next to her, Simmons crowding in on the other side, closer than they'd normally stand within her area of personal space. "Coulson told us we weren't to let anyone spike the punch... until you got here," Simmons tells her in a whisper after too obviously checking where everyone else is and making herself look suspicious in the process.

"This..." Fitz starts and draws a small unmarked clear bottle full with a suspiciously clear liquid out from a pocket, keeping it carefully concealed by his body from the rest of the room. "Is a little something we've been working on-"

"In our spare time," Simmons hastens to add. 

"Is it safe?" she whispers conspiratorially back to them. Oh she is totally getting in to the mood with this party. 

"One hundred percent!" Fitz grins. Then Simmons grins too. She can't help but smile back at them under the force of those beaming smirks. 

"Gimme," she says and he hands it over without a fight. She pours the whole lot in to the bowl, stirs the lightly bobbing fruit to mix it then starts ladling it out in to plastic cups. "Go now," she instructs the pair of them seriously as though this is an actual undercover operation and they filter back in to the crowds without another word. 

She takes several cups in hand to deliver them out to those standing/sitting around in various groups conversing. Between the shock factor of her delivering drinks and the glare she levels on the few that seem intent to decline - everyone takes a cup from her with gracious thanks. She smirks as she leaves them - it's kind of useful this badass reputation sometimes.

She works the room methodically to ensure she misses no one despite the gradual shifting as people change groups, flowing into different circles of conversation seemingly randomly. She's headed to the couches next, conceals a smirks as she lays eyes on her intended victims - er... friends, Mack and Fitz. She hands Fitz a drink and almost hits him when he winks at her, placing the cup down on the floor besides his chair and immediately knocking it over. He's less than subtle and far less than believable in his apologies.

She ignores him in favour of trying to distract Mack from Fitz' woeful attempt at subtlety. "Arrow?" she guesses taking in the frankly enormous bow slung carelessly over his shoulder and bright green hooded garb. Clint would crucify him to see him ruining the strings like that, even if it was only a toy mock up.

"No," she's told shortly by an apparently annoyed Agent Mackenzie. Well will wonders never cease, she didn't think the man had an 'annoyed' mode in him.

"Ah I probably should have warned you about that earlier..." Fitz says before she can find anything to say back to the sulking hulk before her. Her raised eyebrow probably says enough. "He's a little put out that-"

"I'm not the arrow!" Mack buts in sharply. It's obviously not the first time he's said this tonight. It's also obviously not his first drink of the night either. "Not the green arrow. Not the black arrow! Not an arrow of any kind!" 

"He-" 

"Nor am I Hawkeye just because I have a bow and arrow! Jees it's like no one even remembers the classics!!!" Mack continues on a roll.

Fitz covers his mouth with a hand and says aside to her, "the costume store only had Arrow costumes in his size."

"I'm not the arrow!!!" Mack shouts, everyone turning briefly to look over to them before getting engrossed in their own conversations once more. 

"That's exactly what the green arrow would say," Fitz replies smugly.

"I'm-" 

"Robin Hood," she interrupts finally working it out.

"Thank you!" Mack crows relieved, gesturing at her whilst looking at Fitz as if to say 'see, she gets it.' "Anyway, it's not my costume you should be worried about Turbo! Don't ask him about the hand part," Mack says to her, almost certainly with the exact intent of convincing her to do the opposite of what he's just advised.

She looks down briefly to Fitz' hands, scared for a minute that it might somehow be missing, be a robotic replacement, something. She sees his normal, very human looking fingers. She looks back up at him in silent question. Fitz grins then a whirring sound drags her eyes back to the hands now raised above his lap. She jumps despite herself as machinery flicks over his hand from seemingly nowhere, extends, plates appearing, overlapping, connecting and interlinking as the whole ensemble spreads over his skin forming a plate of armour in reds and golds that has her stunned in place. It finally stops, an armoured glove, and she can't help herself as her fingers reach out to trail across it in amazement.

"Amazing," her voice says breathily without her instruction.

"See! I told you it's a perfect success!" Fitz crows, bragging to Mack. She turns his hand over in hers, strokes two fingers across the raised blue orb on the palm. Her body tingles at the excitement of such a dangerous weapon. She flinches when his fingers twitch, almost dropping his hand.

"It doesn't fire," Mack says simply and she's blinking at them both for a further explanation.

"The hand is not a failure, Mackenzie! I keep telling you! I simply didn't have the time to make it both extend from wristwatch to glove and find a way to power the repulsor! Of the two tricks I went with the one I was going to actually be able to use indoors! As in not the repulsor blast that would take out the walls!" Fitz explains becoming slightly red in his passion for the argument.

She smiles, reassured that the machinery is a toy rather than a dangerous weapon brought to the party - you never can be too sure with engineers like Fitz what they'll think is appropriate. She leaves them bickering to deliver more drinks. 

 

x

 

A waving hand from a pair in the far corner beckons her across for an earlier than planned delivery of spiked drinks but she doesn't want to give away her plan by refusing so obvious an invitation for her company. She'll double back around after to catch the few she's missed. 

She doesn't recognise the two immediately from their incredibly detailed costumes - Bonnie and Clyde, who would have known - but the moment he speaks the accent gives them both away, "sorry we didn't get the super hero memo in time to change, love."

"We decided what better time to visit than when everyone is pretending to be someone else," Bobbi continues where Hunter leaves off. She can't get the smile to leave her face. 

"It's really good to see you, Morse," she says indulging in a brief hug with the woman. 

"What no hug for me?!" Hunter complains. Because he's Hunter, because it's like his superpower or something. She shares an eye roll with Bobbi at his childishness. "Seriously unfair. I fly halfway around the world, in the undercarriage mind you it isn't like we're talking first class treatment here, travel in the back of what can only be laughingly termed a-" Sod it. She hugs him anyway. It shuts him up at least. She's not imagining the feeling when he hugs her tightly back for a minute of seriousness. 

She has missed him - possibly even more than Bobbi. His humour. His teasing. His complete and utter irreverence are a joy to have around the base and in her life. He's maybe the only one that has never cared just how scary she pretends to be or what she's done in the past. She tightens her own arms and releases him stepping quickly away to regain her personal space.

"Wow! I never thought that would happen." She glares at him as he continues to grin irreverently. "I certainly never thought that it would happen to _me_. I need to tell the world. Someone get me to the papers. I was not only hugged" - She's probably going to have to kill him to stop him talking - "but I also survived it! So far at least. I should get t- shirts printed up!" Yep, she's going to have to take him out. "Slogan across the front: I just got hugged by the Black Widow!" He winks at her continued glaring and damn it but she can feel the corners of her mouth betraying her as they lift upward against her express instruction. "The on the back: and I survived!"

He smothers her in a second hug as she struggles half-heartedly to escape. "Admit it: you've missed me," he demands simply. She's admitting nothing of the sort! Her heel to the back of his knee forces him to release her as he falls backwards to land heavily on his ass. "I don't know what you mean," she says simply, hands over two tampered cups to Bobbi with a shared smile and walks to retrieve a few more for delivery to the unwary. 

 

Her fourth trip back to the drinks table she becomes uncomfortably aware of the silence throughout the room. She checks quickly to make sure they're not all staring at her, then follows their eyes to the doorway. 

Captain America indeed. 

And damn but he doesn't look half bad... 

... for a weedy geek with jam jar bottom glasses and threadbare clothes. Bare feet and a messy blond wig complete the ensemble.

She's seemingly the only one in the room with legs that work so she heads across to meet him at the door, uncaring of their audience. "So... where's your costume?" she teases him in simple greeting and earns an honest grin in response. "I was looking forward to the spandex," she presses.

"You were definitely the only one," he replies, laughter in his eyes.

"Steve Rogers?" she questions, not because she has any doubt but because she knows he'll enjoy telling the room exactly why he's decided to dress as the nerdy, pre-serum Steve Rogers when this is a party for superheroes.

"Just as much the hero Captain America is," he informs them all and she sees the smiles upon the faces around them at the simple reminder that everyone here, every single ordinary person is a hero in one way or another. He's always been able to captivate an audience with his words. "... and slightly less spandex," he grins that last at her smugly. It really is just like old times with him and her, here and now.

"Nice," she smiles back her compliments. He's not the only one that can made use of a crowd though, she thinks as she turns about to face the people still staring at them, raises the cup in her hand waiting until everyone else does likewise then toasts "to our heroes" and takes a drag on her untampered glass of punch.

"To our heroes," everyone echoes her and takes similar slugs from their cups. Bouts of coughing follow throughout the room and she can't hold back her laughter. 

"You spike the punch again?" Coulson says without a hint of doubt or concern.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she replies irreverently and guides him to the drinks table to point out which of the filled unmarked cups are tamper free. She owes him that much loyalty at least. 

He picks one of those she's signalled but stalls mid way to his mouth, "you wouldn't lie to me about this would you, Melinda?"

She raises her eyebrows is a far too innocently looking expression for him to believe her. It was a clean drink but well if he doesn't want to believe her then... she smiles ruefully at him and passes him a different cup. 

"Caught ya," he says simply taking the drink.

"Agent May," she's interrupted from replying or from pointing out that he should have trusted her the first time.

"Piper." Much less bloody - thank god! 

"I wanted to apologise again, ma'am."

"May," she corrects. Again.

"May, sorry ma'a- May. I er - I really am sorry for leaping on you-at you!" the younger woman still stumbles over her words. Seriously, she's really not that terrifying to talk to! 

"I'm sorry that I over reacted," Melinda replies simply. She'll probably be regretting that she hurt the woman for months to come every time she sees her. Injuries gained in training are one thing. Causing harm to one of her team outside of the practise ring is simply unacceptable.

"No, no. You were entirely right. I shouldn't have underestimated that your reflex would be to defend yourself. It is entirely my fault ma'am - May," Piper continues and Melinda can sense that this is going to go on for far too long on repeat if she keeps arguing about who deserves how much of the blame for this disaster.

"Then apology accepted," she concedes the fight. There's more than enough blame to go around for the both of them. "Enjoy the party, Piper."

"Yes, May. Thank you ma'am-May!" Piper scurries off mumbling to herself about looking like an idiot.

"She's cute," Coulson comments from over her shoulder teasingly. 

"Shut up Phil."

"No really, she is pretty cute. I think you've got a little crush going on there."

"Shut up Philip," she growls at him. 

"You do realise who she was dressed up as right?" She blinks as it hits her - leather, leather and more leather. She inhales raggedly. "You're her hero too," he whispers in to her hair for her ears alone. 

"Just drink your damned drink, Phil!" she says and stalks away to find some better company, better company that won't be teasing her all night. She hears the spluttering coughing behind her that says he's just taken far too large a sip of his spiked brew and grins. Then again, maybe she did deserve a little teasing.

"Melinda!!!"

She chuckles and runs as she hears the swift footsteps chasing her - he should've trusted the first one she handed to him. Just like old times indeed! 

 

x


	3. For good times call ...

Chapter 3 - For good times call...

 

Her phone ringing on vibrate drags her attention from where she's been comfortably dozing to the present. She shuffles quickly to answer before it wakes any of the others up from where they've pretty much dropped as the party quieted. 

She answers it with a "shh" almost before she takes in the face that appears on the screen. 

"So it is true?" Comes the smug silver tones of one Natasha Romanoff aka the last Black Widow, aka the biggest pain in her ass. Okay, second to Coulson. And maybe Clint. The third biggest pain in her ass then.

"What's true?" she asks quietly, still half asleep and more than comfortable enough in the perceived safety of friends to drop off back to sleep right now.

"You're dressed up as me! At a costume party!"

Oh, yeah. Damn it. "It was Coulson's idea," she justifies even though it wasn't. She’s not going to even contemplate how Natasha – currently fugitive and millions miles from any of her regular contacts – has managed to get the information only hours after she actually decided to ‘become’ the Black Widow. Natasha’s abilities sometimes amaze her. Some times worry her too.

"Let me see the others!" Natasha demands smirking and Melinda can’t help but match that grin as she complies - if she's been caught then it's only fair to share the embarrassment. She moves her hand from where it's been trailing patterns in his soft hair before she pans the camera down to catch Coulson in frame. Soundly asleep, his glasses askew while his head rests upon her thigh.

"Is he a geek?" 

"Yes, in all manners of the word. In this case he's chosen a particular one though-"

"Rogers!!!" Natasha crows victoriously.

"Shhh!!!!" and far too damn loudly!

"Sorry. I so have to tell Rogers that Coulson dressed up like him to a superhero party," Natasha is smugness personified on the other end of the line.

"Make sure to add that when questioned about his costume choice Phil was very clear that: ‘Steve was a hero well before he was Captain America’," she tells Natasha because Steve Rogers probably deserves to hear it. Maybe also because she knows Natasha will get a kick out of it.

"That's such a Coulson thing to say," Natasha replies simply, they've all been friends for long enough by now to know exactly how the others think, "in Roger's case, it's probably true though."

Melinda pans the camera around further to catch the two snuggling closely over on the next sofa, "Is that-"

"Bonnie and Clyde," she interrupts pointedly. As much as it's Natasha calling, no line is ever one hundred percent secure. Hunter and Bobbi can't afford to be caught on US soil this early into their fugitive status.

"You know they really shouldn't be back there so soon," Natasha agrees with her unvoiced thoughts, "It's too big a risk-"

"They'll be okay. She's good." Melinda pauses for a moment considering how to phrase it, "and he's .... _annoyingly_ good."

The low snort from the line appreciates her down played humour. 

She continues with the camera, "Why is Hawkeye green?!"

"He's not Clint, he's-"

"The Arrow."

"Robin Hood."

"He looks more like a Little John from here."

"So many jokes, so little time." 

"Your two ducklings look happy," Natasha says softly and Melinda looks up from the screen herself to see the two in real life. Curled in an around one another beside Mack, his legs lying over the pair of them like an overly lumpy blanket. It's the first time she's seen them relaxed in company since... probably their first year. 

"They've been forced to grow up," she speaks the thought aloud.

"Life has a habit of doing that to those of us in this line of work." Melinda inhales deeply and of course Natasha picks up on it immediately. "You can't protect them from everything forever, Melinda."

"I know," she agrees sadly. It doesn't stop her from wanting to try. 

"Any more news on your wandering protégé?" 

"This isn't a secure line," she replies and she's no intention of talking about Daisy's leaving. The hurt is still too fresh, the pain too near the surface to talk about it to anyone.

"If you need any help, you'll call me?" Natasha offers simply. If she called, she knows Natasha would come running. They all would.

"She'll come back," Melinda replies with a confidence she doesn't feel. "When she's ready." She doesn't let the doubt linger that daisy might never be ready to come back to them. 

"Mel?" 

"Hmm?" she questions distractedly. 

"Thanks." Natasha's voice is quiet, tentative. Almost vulnerable sounding and not at all like the Natasha she knows. Natasha doesn't allow herself to show any vulnerability, even among friends.

"For what?"

There's a pause where she tries to read the other woman's carefully blanked face knowing that Natasha's thinking of hitting the disconnect rather than answering her question honestly. 

The quiet words come to her just before the screen goes blank. 

"For thinking of me as a hero."

 

x

 

She stares at the phone in silence for a few minutes trying to get her head around the concept that Natasha might still think she needs to pay for her crimes after everything she's been though, everything she's done to balance her damned ledger, how can she still think there's any doubt that she's a hero? 

"You two are more alike than you'd like to believe," his quiet voice interrupts her thoughts as his hand traces patterns across the top of her thigh. Her fingers pause for a moment then continue to run through his hair gently just appreciating the joy of being able to touch another human being without risk, without censure, without anyone implying incorrectly that such equates to sex. His eyes remain closed still half feigning sleep and if he's not awake then surely neither of them need to stop. 

"You shouldn't be eaves dropping on my conversations."

A raised hand from the other side of the room draws her attention to its owner. "Yeah love, can't really say I can agree to that when, you know, you are talking out loud in a room full of spies."

"Hun-ter!" Bobbi elbows him from the sounds of it.

"And that compliment I am so getting on a t-shirt as well!" Hunter continues from his position now on the floor. 

"She said you were annoying," Bobbi reminds him.

 _"'Annoyingly good'_ , Bobs, completely different thing."

"I can't believe that even the Black Widow didn't know I was Robin Hood," a deeper voice breaks in from across to her right. Seriously, was no one in this room of sleeping people actually asleep?!

“Robin Hood? I thought you were just a bigger grumpier Katniss. Couldn’t work out why you’d not got a wig,” Hunters says immediately, very nearly drawing an actual laugh from her. She smothers the urge. 

Phil’s fingers dig in to her thigh until she looks down to catch his now open eyes. “No laughing,” he over enunciates soundlessly and damn him if it doesn’t drag a small huff of a laugh from her.

"It's okay Mack, next year we'll be able to book earlier and I'm certain we'll be able to get a hulk costume in your size," Jemma's the first to find words to reassure him.

"And I can be Bruce Banner!" Fitz is quick to take up the idea and run with it. As always. With everything. "I can be in the party and say 'I'm feeling angry' then you can charge in all like 'rargh' and I'll slip out. It'll be great!"

"You'll be spending half your night standing in the corridor," Jemma points out the obvious floor in their plan. 

"Now, Jemma, we'd only do it until we got bored and then we'd both be able to enjoy the party-" 

"Until you got bored? How many times tonight has Fitz shown you his iron man arm? You'll be standing out there all night!"

She lets their voices drone on in to the background, relaxes simply enjoying their presence. This is how their team should be. Relaxed. Playful. Together. 

"The party was a good idea, Phil. The team needed it." She needed it too. Maybe more than he knows. 

There's just one notable person missing that leaves a hole in her heart. She sighs softly, hopes he misses the maudlin route her thoughts have taken. She really does miss Daisy.

"Daisy'll come home for Christmas," he promises her. 

She hopes he's right. 

She needs their team back together.

 

... maybe she should call her.

 

x

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awwww.... well I had fun writing it even if u lot didn't reading it :P
> 
> I think we all need a little fun fluff in our lives sometimes, maybe especially when shit's hittin the fan and flying all over the damned room! 
> 
> Toodles :D


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